


Rogue, Prophet, Queen.

by aglowSycophant



Category: Dungeon Moment Expanded Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Archmage Rhuieth, Alternate Universe - Bontu Path, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27445900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aglowSycophant/pseuds/aglowSycophant
Summary: She knows when it's his time, and when last words would be spoken.But he likes to hope, because he is bright. A flame, in these times of darkness.So, as they enter the hall, Nerira does not say, "I love you." Nerira does not say, "I'm sorry."Nerira rests her hand on his shoulder, and he stops and turns towards her."Yeah?" he says."We'll get through this together," she lies.Maybe he knows it is a death sentence. Maybe not. Nerira feels like an executioner, as she enters the room, and she wants nothing more than to scream.
Kudos: 10





	Rogue, Prophet, Queen.

She knows when it's his time, and when last words would be spoken.

But he likes to hope, because he is bright. A flame, in these times of darkness.

So, as they enter the hall, Nerira does not say, "I love you." Nerira does not say, "I'm sorry."

Nerira rests her hand on his shoulder, and he stops and turns towards her.

"Yeah?" he says.

"We'll get through this together," she lies.

Maybe he knows it is a death sentence. Maybe not. Nerira feels like an executioner, as she enters the room, and she wants nothing more than to scream.

* * *

"Firgo," Nerira speaks, her tone neutral. Not bland, not flat - but empty, void of everything. The world hasn't looked right since he died and, with every death past, it has gotten bleaker.

His death. Esrark's. Fauriel's. Hourai's, swiftly following. Twang's. Adrex, he was what she had left.

And, staring at the decapitated dragonborn beside Firgo, the wound cauterized, Nerira's lip twitches.

So she has herself.

So she has no one.

"Nerira," Firgo answers back. There is something rotten to his tone, something bitter and burnt. He kicks Adrex's head away, and Nerira watches as it rolls.

A monster she may be, Nerira has never stopped feeling.

"I'm surprised," she says, words as even as ever, "That you're here."

*"Yeah?"* he presses - taunts. But his anger falls on deaf ears, and Nerira has known nothing but sorrow for what feels like centuries. "And?"

"Nothing," she mumbles, brushing hair from her face. "Just thought it was odd."

"What, did you think I was some kind of fucking failure?" he spits back. "That I'd die so easily? I have a purpose, Nerira. One you wouldn't understand."

Nerira's eyes trail down from his own, molten and fiery and angry, to his chest. A hole, burned through him - through his flesh, through his ribs, and to his heart, and the organ is charred, black as coal, and thoroughly, _thoroughly_ dead. A metal chain extends from it, and, with each pulse of his heartbeat, if he had one, molten red surges forth.

It beats rather fast, for a dead man.

"You twist my words," Nerira placates idly. Once, the thought of speaking terrified her. But her mentor had taught her and her mentor had taught her well - there is nothing to fear. Nothing to hate. To grieve is enough, to her. "I mean nothing more than what I said."

Firgo gives her a look that is nothing short of resentful, and Nerira feels nothing but nothing. He took what he wanted, after all - to be a Kindleborn was to conquer, so Nerira had been told. And Taftu's conquest knew no bounds, knew no morals. Friend or foe - there is no difference between them, in Firgo's eyes, she understands. Firgo has become a weapon, a means to an end. A sword for Taftu to wield.

In a way, Nerira is the same. Nerira is nothing more than an object to use.

Amnuum's hand on her shoulder, bony and dead and cold, squeezes slightly. Not to calm her nerves, but as a reminder. Know your place. Know what you are.

A monster, coldly feeling. Nothing mortal, but nothing dead. Treading the border between monster and man.

The Prophet looks up at her lord and retrieves their dagger, ornate, and made of bone. The wood melds into her hand, growing vines that reach her veins. 

Before her, the Sword retrieves his axe, the blade surging to a molten white.

He snarls at her as his heart glowed a fiery red.

Nerira wants to cry.

There would only be one of them that walks out of this palace, she realizes, letting the dagger grow out to a full-sized sword.

That unfeeling glint in Amnuum's eyes lets her know that, certainly, it would have to be her.

Maybe vengeance, she muses, for Adrex's death. But her heart isn't in it, and Nerira cannot feel rage - all she feels is sorrow as the death toll grew.

Yet, still, after a battle long-fought, the Prophet raises her sword and, face cold and dead, brings her blade down upon the Prince's neck, and he falls to the ground, lifeless.

Taftu, seated upon his throne, looks angry, perhaps annoyed, but not shocked. And, seeing Nerira, he calmly speaks, "So, Prophet, you've disarmed me."

"Perhaps," she answers. Staring at Firgo's body, she couldn't bring herself to cry, like she did when he first died. She thinks of him and happy memories; she thinks of Adrex and his hugs; she thinks of Fauriel and her stories; of Twang and written words; of Hourai and his book of stars, still kept in her backpack.

That sad veil around her worsens, and the world grows bleaker.

Death is unnecessary, she thinks, an unnecessary need. Like air, like food, like water.

And, distantly, Nerira wishes she could have done this all over.

And, distantly, Nerira mourns, and her eyes were dull.

"You've done well, my Prophet," Amnuum mumbles, voice soft in the quiet room. _"_ I am very proud of you."

"Mm," Nerira hums, staring at the emperor on his throne. "Thank you, my lord."

The praise is hollow, like Nerira's body and her soul. Like Firgo, dead on the ground, spewing molten blood onto the marble.

Like nothing more than a vessel.

* * *

When Hourai enters the throne room, Shevin walks in beside him. Both smile, and neither smile reaches their eyes.

"Are we late," Hourai says, "My Master?"

"Mm," she hums in return, "Perhaps, my love. Perhaps."

"What a shame," he answers, voice betraying his words - apathetic, unaffected, "Truly."

"Truly," she echoes.

Hourai walks forward, leaving his Master's side after she gives him a nod. Walks past Nerira, ignores her completely, staring down at the dead Prince before him. He kneels down, touching him, and muses, "He looks familiar, doesn't he? And so do you."

"Hourai," Nerira says, and blinks slow.

"Do I know you?" he says. "I believe you've got the wrong person."

"You're right," Nerira lies. "I have. My apologies."

"It's nice," he says idly, "That you know your place."

Nerira thinks of owls and constellations and days long gone.

"Did you kill it?" the Enthraller asks, "This Prince."

"Mm?" Nerira hums. "Yes. I did."

"You did," he says, tone unfamiliar to her, "Such a beautiful, beautiful job."

The praise is hollow. His words are venom.

Nerira laughs.

"It was ugly," he continues. "Wasn't it?" As he speaks, he lifts up the Prince's head, examining it.

It's almost surgical, how he does it.

"He was okay," Nerira offers, and he rolls his eyes. "I don't know. I don't look for beauty."

"Droll," he mutters.

"The stars," she says, "I think they're pretty."

"Oh, of course." He takes a seat, wiping blood from the Sword's face. "They're beautiful, I believe. The stars... What secrets do they hide? Are they the same stars our masters have seen? I find myself asking, often... What have they been witness to? Do they know what we do not?"

"Celestials, yes," Nerira mumbles.

"Celestials... I wouldn't call them that."

"Then what would you?"

"The stars are immortal. The heavens are not. The heavens... Are an ideal. An ideology, you know? Religion. Nadir, those sorts of things..." he rambles.

"You had a familiar, once," she says, "Right? A celestial. Named Scout."

He stares at her for a few seconds, then laughs.

"I didn't need it," he says. "Any longer."

"...What do you mean?"

He answers, coldly, "I need no one but her. It was a distraction."

"You used to love him," Nerira protests. "He was your family."

He pauses and tilts his head back and laughs, rehearsed and plastic.

"Family? Prophet, you've got me confused with someone else."

"I know," Nerira says after a pause, bile rising in her throat. Looking at the stars on a warm summer afternoon. Right after Firgo's death, outside Raevun. Of course, now that Prince is dead, he'd... "But I was hopeful."

"Hope," he repeats, breathing out the word. "Hope, dear... It's a beautiful concept, isn't it?"

"Beauty does not mean anything to me," she states.

"Mm," he hums, and he stares at her like she's meat, something cold and detached in his eyes. "Well. That's a shame. Anyways, my dear... Hope does not mean much, in the end. It's a pitiful ideal to have."

 _I know,_ Nerira thinks, gaze trailing away to stare at Adrex's body.

"Do you have anything else to say?" he asks. "Or shall I take my leave?"

Nerira doesn't care. This isn't Hourai, after all. He is dead after all, left bled-out on the battlefield.

"Do what you want," she says, tone cold. If she could feel enough to cry, Nerira would bawl. "It doesn't matter."

"What a dreary note to end things on," he muses, but nods. "Well. If that's all..."

And, as the Enthraller stands, Nerira's hand shoots out and grabs his cloak. In Undercommon, there's prayers written on it. Prayers that mean nothing to him.

"I knew," she breathes out, something sad taking hold of her, "Someone beautiful, once. She was-She was..."

He cants his head back to meet her gaze.

"Her name was Fauriel," Nerira says, because Nerira never forgot, "And she was gorgeous."

"Maybe," he says, slapping her hand away, "I will meet her, one day."

 _You already have,_ she wants to scream.

"Maybe," she says instead.

He stands there for a while, staring at her, waiting for her to speak.

But Nerira has nothing to say, even though her mind is screaming at her to tell him everything.

But this creature isn't Hourai, she reminds herself, it merely wears his skin.

"Goodbye," Nerira says. It nods stiffly, walking away.

"Goodbye," it says back to her, tone curt, tone cold, and tone unfamiliar.

* * *

"Do we have any other business here, my Lord?" she asks, her voice cold. Heavy. Every word is one more too many. "Or...?"

"No," Amnuum mumbles. "Come to me, my Prophet."

Like a dog, Nerira obeys.

Their hand, skeletal and bony and dry, runs through her hair. A facsimile of comfort. A gesture, performative. Still, there is an understanding lying beneath it.

"The throne," she starts, "Do you not want it?"

Amnuum stares at Taftu as Shevin converses with him. The Voice stands by her side, and it is so much less than mortal.

"I do not want anything," Amnuum speaks eventually, "That has happened, but this is what I've done this for."

"The throne," Nerira repeats dully.

"Her Voice," Amnuum continues, ignoring her, "Is something we will have to rid ourselves of one day. A propaganda machine. Just as dangerous as his Prince."

Nerira thinks of killing it just like she killed Firgo.

"Of course," she agrees, resigned to her fate, "My Lord. I will do anything for you."

"Thank you," says Amnuum, tone just as dull, "My Prophet."

If there is a god, Nerira thinks, then that god must be cruel.

There is no way this should have ever happened.


End file.
